The Common Thread
by L. A. Solvang
Summary: In every family there is a common thread. So what happens to the family when that thread is no longer there? Based after the events of the TMNT 4 movie, though placed in "author-verse". Re-write from 2007.
1. The Big Apple

**Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles**® were created by K. Eastman and P. Laird, and all intellectual property/rights belong to Nickelodeon. This story is not made for profit, but for the love of writing and the TMNT® universe and will be removed from public view if Laird, Mirage Studioes, Nickelodeon or whoever else with the right to gives the say-so.

**T****HE COMMON THREAD**

_Author Comments_

Yes, I'm back, baby! Miss me?

I sadly can't make that many promises on how often I'll update TCT, although my aim is to update once every other month I know it'll be sporadic at best. I have school in the morning and from school I go straight to work in the evening. I also work in the weekends for the most part, so between having a social life and other interests I often find myself in lack of time to write. It's been the reason why this story was taken down in the first place, however this time I'm going to MAKE time to write rather than slag off. I do not believe in writer's block, so that's never been an excuse for me, I've just been lazy doing other things instead while getting discouraged too easily and I won't let it happen again. If anyone wants to beta or simply have a chat about TMNT or the story in general, don't hesitate to contact me. =D

I wish I could add "character study" to the genre, because that is how I actually would categorise this story if had it as an option. I'm quite certain that a lot of the old readers would agree to it judging from what I remember of the old reviews. =P There will be action, there will be comedy and drama, there will be angst and comfort, but first and foremost it's just me exploring how I see the Turtles and their universe. You do not have to agree with me, this is – in the lack of a better term – "my verse" of the TMNT. _The Common Thread_ is loosely based on the events in the TMNT 4 movie, because it annoyed (and fascinated) me to the point where I simply had to open up Word and get writing. Even after the time since the movie came out, I still have that urge, which is why this story hasn't been abandoned.

I've tried to prevent myself from being very repetitive in my writing in general and I'd be thankful if you bother pointing it out if I go overboard. I'm grateful to any and all critique; though I do not aspire to become a famous author I don't mind pointers on how to improve my writing. As this is a rewrite I have to warn you that chapters go from "Mhm, can't tell the difference" to "ZOMG! What did she do?!" compared to how you read it the first time. To me, the biggest changes are to the character's personality and (what I hope is) a more mature tone overall, with less repetitive angst. After being a part of Stealthy Stories forum for about two years and taking part in lots of discussions, my view of the Turtles have changed somewhat from how it was when I first wrote this story. If you're a new reader, then naturally this won't really mean anything to you. However, if you're an old reader and you dislike the changes I've made I can only apologise, but I couldn't have picked up and continued TCT in any other way. The first chapter, at least, shouldn't hold any significant changes for re-readers.

Enjoy.

* * *

Prologue: The Big Apple

_"Welcome to New York. Now get the fuck out."_

_~ t-short slogan_

Throughout the day she hadn't been able to decide whether or not she liked New York.

On the downside there was this strange, undefined odour that filled every little nook and cranny. Eventually she ended up dubbing it "big city smell" - in lack of a more imaginative term. It was impossible to not rub your nose every now and again as if the scent had gotten caught up there somewhere. At some point she had this compulsive idea that if it wasn't up in her nose, then maybe it had manifested itself above her upper lip as a black spot which she started to rub at instead. There was also this racket of noise beyond anything she'd ever thought was possible; people chatting or even shouting at each other, cars honking their horns whenever their blood got to a simmer, alarms and police sirens, dogs barking at whatever and TVs and radios going at full blast from open windows. She knew it wasn't the noise itself that was so overwhelming, but the sheer quantity of it attacking her ears from all directions at once.

There wasn't much animal life, either. At least not looking aside what she was damn sure had to be a massive rat running down in a nearby ally, even if Brenda assured her it was more likely an alley cat. Her heart had even been up her throat earlier that day from seeing the pigeons going zigzag between an ocean of feet without any concern of being stomped flat against the gum-covered pavement. It was strange how different it was when you were used to far more rural environments to come to a world of concrete and steel. Maybe the New Yorkers thought it was nice, though, but she couldn't shake off the sense that it was too big and impersonal.

Not forgetting hectic, dirty and rude.

However, she had discovered that there was an upside. New York at night was by far more appealing to her. Even the tacky, neon signs - with their blinking animations which all demanded her attention at once - added to the city's nightly charm. It was alive in a different way than it had been during the day. With her head leaned against the car window she could feel how the city had, as by some unspoken law, slowly morphed into a new state; a new life form. One that was meant for those who had no intentions of sleeping just yet and where busy doing their thing: Be it drinking, to enjoy a laugh or dance the soles of their shoes off. Make love until the crack of dawn...

The thought brought a lazy smile to her face, a little surprised over herself. Even if she had been up early to do that sightseeing with Brenda and it was now almost four in the morning, she didn't feel exactly tired. There was only this overwhelming state of contentment as the gravity pull of a turn caused her body to push itself against the door in the car. It was nice to feel the cool surface of the glass press against her forehead for a brief moment. She didn't care, didn't mind and continued to contently watch as the building and streets whooshed by outside. It might be because she was drunk, she mused, thinking it explained her odd mindset at the moment. Then again she didn't feel intoxicated in any way other than this careless, happy feeling. Maybe it was what it took to truly accept this odd city, with its smells, noises and rush.

"Now watch this! You too, June!"

June's attention shifted from the passing scenery to the driver, Sean, as he made a new, sharp turn that forced her body to abide to the rules of gravity. It was a little odd how this time her change in attention along with the gravity pull made her stomach do some protesting summersaults. The high speed that made the scenery fly by also failed to offer the tires a good grip and the rubber tore off along the asphalt creating a high pitched scream. It was as if the car was wailing in protest to the treatment, June thought as she braced herself in an upright position to avoid further upset to her stomach.

To her slight surprise she felt dizzy alongside the slight twist to her gut. It wasn't there a moment ago. Maybe she should've focused more on the road rather than daydream. It got a little hard considering her thoughts were so quick to drift at any distraction. Like how strange it is how people fall into "types" whenever they get drunk. The thought occurs to her with a half smile. Brenda, her cousin, fell under those hysterically happy drunks who'll suddenly fall into a heap of giggles over an object or a situation only they can possibly see the comedy in. Maybe it was the expression of her face as their eyes meet or the turn or something unrelated all together, but something has Brenda in a fit of laughter in the passenger seat. Brenda, who tilts her head back and to the side when she laughs so you can see into her wide mouth and the space between her two front teeth becomes clearer.

June can't help it. It makes her laugh, too, because it's so strangely liberating. She's happy that Brenda talked her into visiting New York this weekend. She's happy that her cousin has a boyfriend who loves her and treats her well for once. She's content because she's allowed to just sit back and watch the buildings, streets and signs blur by as they drive home from the party. She's happy because it's night and the city has opened its arm to everyone who has found better things to do rather than sleep. But that careless, happy feeling suddenly turns into something uncomfortably heavy that settles in the pit of June's stomach when realisation hits her.

Sean was also drunk.

It's the only thing that goes through her head for a few frantic seconds as she tries to grasp the exact meaning of her new discovery. The smile still lingers on her face, if somewhat stiff and fading a little by each second. She knew this before, didn't she? Even as they got into the car and drove away from that guy's house, she knew he was drunk. It didn't matter then. Why does it suddenly matter now?

As the car goes through another turn she stiffens as the tires scream and Brenda tilts her head backwards in laughter.

"You shouldn't be driving," is her first meek protest that drowns under the other sounds so she has to repeat it with a firmer tone.

"Say what?" Sean doesn't look in the rear-view mirror to look at her, but turns his head sideways to glance at her from the corner of his eye!

That causes her to stiffen further and her hands grasp a hold of her seatbelt as if to steady herself for something horrible. June honestly doesn't know why she didn't protest when they got into the car to drive home. Sean didn't slur when speaking and was capable of walk a close-to-straight line, but wearing his alcohol better than some didn't make him any less drunk. Sean should've never gotten behind the wheel of this car. Nor should he have had any passengers.

"We got to park the car and get a cab!"

"Are you kiddin' me?"

"Sean, you're drunk..!"

By June's plead Brenda was giggling again, looking back at her cousin with a silly grin. In her drunken haze she laughed as if she'd never ever seen or heard anything as funny. June looked like a little kid who had just seen her pet get ran over, then backed up on and then ran over again to find a well-used image. It was more than enough to make Brenda lean her head back and to the side with laughter, utterly amused with the absurdity her own mind produced.

"We're fine, don't worry. I'm not even goin' that fast."

This was the best weekend ever!

Brenda leaned back into her seat and faced forward to see the familiar streets go by. She felt giddy with love for the New York nightlife that still pulsed through her veins, even from the after-party that honestly could've had more life... and liquor. If only Sean knew he wasn't her biggest love, she thought and turned to look dreamily out the window. This city was her first love and always would be. Boyfriends tended to come and go, often after leaving a few bruises, spiteful words and broken inventory. It was either bad taste or stupidity that brought those men in her life, or perhaps a combination of the two, but with Sean she had struck gold.

Even with June being halfway into hysterics in the backseat he was still patient with her. He'd even stopped showing off in the turns to try to calm her down. They had dated for seven months this Friday and Brenda hoped they'd always love each other like they did now. But, hell, she was a realistic girl. If it didn't work out for some reason she'd still have New York. At least that was a partner who treated everyone like crap. She knew what to expect from it and how to give it hell in return; it was a relationship that had worked well for them both so far.

"Sean!"

Brenda snapped out of her thoughts by the sudden outburst to turn her attention out on the road just in time to see something big land on the hood of the car, slide across the metal and impact her side of the windshield. The force caused the glass to break into a cobweb pattern before Sean's far-too-late evasive manoeuvre caused the creature to roll off and out of her sight. Even in those spit-seconds she could picture it hitting the asphalt with a hard, bloody thud before going into a messy, just as bloody roll... A far too real eerie sound snaps her back again. One that sends chills down her spine and she is unable to decide if the noise was from Sean standing on the breaks or June screaming. As the car suddenly jolted to a halt she could only stare forward into the web on the glass in a morbid fascination with its beauty and her heartbeats ringing in her ears.

"Oh, God, we killed someone..."

Even with that said, no one moved. With the engine off they just listened to the night, desperate for any sound to indicate what they had it. If it was still alive.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, we killed--"

"Shut up!" Sean shouted with an unsuited high pitch to his voice. And despite the horrible incident they'd found themselves in, Brenda couldn't help but think that it was highly unattractive.

It was amazing how fast you apparently sober up when there is an emergency. It's as if the brain knows that things are seriously fucked up and decides that "hey, let's just pull ourselves together" and stays like that until you manage to grasp the series of events just long enough to figure out how to react. And like that three people silently chewed on the fact that they had hit something. Ran it over. Injured it. Possibly killed it. It was, however, harder to snap out of the shock of what had just happened in order to figure out what to do about it.

Brenda closed her eyes and spent her first emergency-sober-moment to thank higher powers for making June have them put on seatbelts before hitting the road. It was a clear moment that seemed really ill-placed seeing how none had second thoughts to getting into the car when they were all on different levels of "plastered". At least not until pretty recently, that is.

"We're going to jail..!"

"I told you to shut up!"

"No, this can't be happening," was all Brenda could whisper.

"Jesus Christ... straight to hell."

"Shut the fuck up, June!"

"We got to get out of the car. Someone's hurt..." Brenda said in a hoarse voice.

"I know, I know... Just... Fuck!" Sean slammed his hands into the steering wheel at the curse.

"We got to help... or call for help."

"Okay... Okay! Just let me breathe for a moment, will ya?"

After another minute or so to calm down in silence, other than a mantra of muffled "Jesus Christ"s from June, they shakily got out of the car. Sean walked around the front to get over to Brenda's side, wanting her support rather than planning on giving her his. His eyes trailed over the damage to his beloved car and he was surprised there weren't any on the grill itself. There was a solid dent in the hood and the side view mirror had been knocked off as the thing rolled off, both which made his heart sink a little thinking of the cost of repairs. The star on the windshield marked the spot where it had hit the passenger's side where Brenda had been sitting. Considering she had gotten it right at her face he was proud of her ability to have kept her cool.

He wasn't sure whether or not to be relieved with the fact that there didn't seem to be any blood.

"I don't see anything..."

June hadn't dared to look anywhere but down to her own feet ever since she had gotten out of the car. The images her mind produced for her were horrible enough and the thought that reality could show her something similar was terrifying. Now she could only turn a bit dumbly to face Brenda who had whispered out the words, blinking a few times while her numbed brain tried to make sense of what she had heard.

"What..?"

"There's no one there," Brenda laughed with a mix of fright and relief. "Look."

The streetlights threw down spotlight round circles on the pavement down the street. Everything about the scene was scary, June thought. More so because Brenda was right: There was no one in there to indicate that they had hit someone or even something just a few minutes ago. No blood, no nothing besides little specs of paint from the hood and pieces of glass from the windshield spread out like twinkling stars over the black asphalt. There were only the residential night sounds to listen to, like the occasional dog barking sharply in the clear night air.

"It must've been an animal," Sean said with a frown, as if he didn't quite believe his own statement.

Brenda raised both her arms up to brush her hair out of her face, puffing her cheeks not sure what to feel about that conclusion.

"Must have been an animal," June echoed in a whisper before finding her voice again. "Shouldn't we see if we can find it? It's probably hurt."

"No!" Sean said sharply, before giving a tired sigh. "I mean-- I'd rather just get home before someone sees us."

"But we're still drunk..!"

"Hey, I feel a lot more sober now. Plus if you keep your trap shut for the rest of the ride maybe I'll be able to keep my eyes on--"

"Shut up!" Brenda hissed and looked at the both of them, talking as if she was addressing small children. "Sean will drive slowly. We'll take our time. And we'll get home without any accidents." And hopefully without running into the police considering the state of Sean's car, she thought.

"But what about the anim--"

"We can't run around at four in the morning hunting it down, June. I'll sit back with you, okay?"

After a bit of coaxing, June found herself in the backseat again, leaning her chin on Brenda's shoulder as Sean started the engine. She was too scared and tired to bother argue with them about getting a cab or finding whatever poor creature they had hit. By nature she was shy to conflicts and the two of them were so strong-willed they easily coaxed her to give in without further protest. She felt drunk now. Drunk and a little sick over the car's movements as Sean steered it down the street and the sharp light of the streetlamps passing over her tired eyes.

It was just an animal, she told herself, like Brenda and Sean said. A human wouldn't have taken off like that, now would it? If it was lucky it would be found in the morning and someone would be kind enough to take it to the vet and locate its owner. June didn't even want to think about what it would go through if it wasn't lucky.

"Did you guys see it..? It didn't look quite like an animal, did it?" June silently enquired.

The humming vibrations of the car lulled her nauseous mind at ease as they continued down the street, the turns being far gentler now than what they had been. She had come to the conclusion she didn't like it. New York, that is. It wasn't her kind of city. It was horrible enough at day with all the people, the noise and that big city smell she'd never be able to determine what was. At night it was even worse. June blinked lazily at the buildings and streets as they passed by outside the car window, the pace much slower and more to her liking. It was alive in a different kind of way at night; a New York at night embraced those who didn't sleep. Who drank and drove. Stole. Raped. Murdered. Was up to no good.

It would look the other way until dawn.

Later, once June tucked herself into the makeshift bed on the sofa at Brenda's place, she'd realize no one had answered her earlier question. That night her mind started to spin off nightmares from that seemingly innocent query to haunt her sleep in a couple of years to come. They would slowly start to fade away one morning when June would go out to check her mailbox in her small, nice smelling hometown to find an invitation to Brenda and Sean's wedding. Eventually there would be no more haunted nightmares about that thing they had killed.


	2. Kindness & Caring

**Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles**® were created by K. Eastman and P. Laird, and all intellectual property/rights belong to Nickelodeon. This story is not made for profit, but for the love of writing and the TMNT® universe and will be removed from public view if Laird, Mirage Studies, Nickelodeon or whoever else with the right to gives the say-so.

_Author Comments_

I'm combining/swopping some chapters around all depending on how smooth I feel it makes my re-writing. I'm not sure it will make a difference for old or new readers as it depends on how much you remember from the original story. =P The only problem is that I need to keep my tongue in cheek to make sure I don't fondle up my plot or the small plot-points within each chapter. Or the general upfuckery of trying to make a smooth transition between said chapters... However, I'll give you a bigger read for each update to make for the longer wait, which I'm sorry to say can't be helped. Last week I turned in my last exam before the summer so I can conscious-free set off more time to write.

Enjoy. Be brutal to it. Besides the "wordy" aspect, I'm sad to say it's like my relationship with deadlines - very hard to avoid. =P

Chapter 01: Kindness and Caring

_"Siblings are the people we practice on, the people who teach us about fairness_

_and cooperation and kindness and caring – quite often the hard way."_

_~ Pamela Dugdale_

That would leave a bruise.

No, wait, that was so stupid it better have left a bruise!

Hidden in an alley away from any curious onlookers who hadn't been able to catch sleep yet, Michelangelo inspected the left side of his torso gingerly. The thinner, sensitive skin between his carapace and plastron had taken a beating as he slammed into the side view mirror when he rolled off the car. There was a scratch to the edge of his shell he had no way to fully inspect as it went out to his back, however the sharp touch of glass to his fingertips indicated the hard impact with the windshield must've gotten some of it stuck in the keratin. The thought was a little discouraging more so as it meant he'd need someone's assistance in order to get it out. Not that the odds were with him to be able to get away with sneaking inside unseen anyway! Damnit. On further inspection his left wrist hurt when he gently moved the joint, meaning it had to be sprained. Ice would be needed when he got home, that was for sure.

At least Martial arts had once again saved his stupid ass from getting seriously hurt. Without knowing how to twist his body to land in order to absorb most of the force on impact and then roll to prevent further injury he'd be in far worse shape. After all, the mutation did grant them quite a surprising number of human traits, though that in return meant they were no longer so well armoured that they could go up against a car without a scratch. Not that he thought any non-mutated turtle could anyway... Okay, so his left wrist was likely sprained - if mildly so - it was far better than actually heading home with a broken arm. Stiff joints, growing bruises and torn skin here and there were added to the injury list and all were survivable if more than a little embarrassing.

Even so it wasn't anything less than he thought he deserved for his own downright stupidity of getting hit in the first place. What on earth was he thinking? Oh, yes, he remembers: That he was awesome. That he had lost all his money in a game of poker, but didn't care because he had a fun night regardless with sweet tasting blue drinks and "mon ami". Even if he felt impressively sober at the moment, Mike realized he wasn't fully certain to how he managed to miss that car and that had to be the alcohol's fault. All he remembered was self assurance as he decided to run across the road where there was a dead street light to cloak his figure somewhat. There had been a car moving down the same street, though. Did he misjudge the distance? Did the car keep too high speed? Was it that unexpected turn from the driver's part? Wasn't Mike as fast as he thought he was?

For a moment his anger flared up towards the moron behind the wheel. He could've hit somebody's pet! Hell, if he ran across the road there had to be human drunks who could've done the same stupid thing, right? But... eh, he wasn't sure if it had any purpose being mad. Sure, Mike would allow himself to be annoyed, though anything beyond that he didn't have the strength for. Knowing his father he was sure that nothing would change the fact it would be his fault regardless of circumstances. In all honesty it wasn't a decision he was disagreeing with either. The risk they took each time they expose themselves to humans were far too great for any excuse to make it acceptable.

April and Casey had been lucky shots, they couldn't assume every encounter would be just as. What if he hadn't been able to collect himself in that last minute to jump and actually had been hit? What if he'd actually managed to get swept under the damn car? Then what? Fuck that he might be seriously hurt; he'd risk his entire family by being seen or captured. If the driver and his passengers had been in a situation where they decided to dial 911 Mike was certain that this would have been a far more serious scenario. Shuddering at the thought he moved further down the alley, not bothering tossing a glance out to the street as he had heard the car drive off a bit ago. Deciding to just be thankful they didn't bother looking for what they had hit, even if his annoyance grew at their complete lack of conscience! They had at least done him the favour to kick some reality in him. Now he found himself far more aware over his intoxicated state. If he hadn't been worried about infections he'd have taken the underground route, but with the cuts he had he'd rather stay above ground.

This time he'd not allow himself to believe he was awesome.

The scent of cigarettes, perfume and alcohol that draped around him like clothing was most certainly not in his favour. Also his own fault, even if he hadn't been given the generous offer to sleep the booze off, he could've shown more caution. He should've gone underground, so why didn't he? Oh, that's right. He had felt a little light headed from the alcohol and figured fresh air would do him some good. Not forgetting how invulnerable and free he felt as he rushed past dark lit windows and dim lit streets, feeling strangely empowered by the thought that the world didn't have a clue he even exited.

"Fuckin--!"

The outburst turned into an inner trial of curses at the pain going up the arm as he had involuntarily supported himself on a jump between two buildings. Michelangelo crouched down and clutched his left wrist while scurrying to a shadowy area near the ledge of the rooftop where he'd at least be somewhat more concealed to curious eyes. Trying to get a better view the damage in the dim light he could only to return to his previous conclusion of a mild sprain - one he'd only make worse if he kept using it during jumps. He felt a rush of self pity shortly followed by shame for being such a baby to let it all bother him. Maybe it was the fact he was somewhat drunk that was the reason to his sensitivity? Yeah, that'd do.

Mike heard an alarm go off in the distance. In other cities the sound would have been ear shattering pierce in the otherwise silent night, but in New York it simply blended among the other noises. There were several typical nightlife sounds that reached him as he started moving again, leaving them behind him just as he managed to pick them out: A crying child, a couple arguing, the blaring sounds of a TV and even a guy with a very sad looking comb-over who stuck his head out the window and shouted; "will ya turn that off, its five o' clock in tha fuckin' mornin'!"

Lucky he found a plank between the next two building to balance over the gap rather than go for another jump. If he could avoid acrobatics, then he would. He felt dizzy as was, both from the impact as well as the alcohol and he wondered if Don would force him to stay up in case he had a concussion. Regardless it struck him as a bad idea to go forth as if he was sober only to misjudge a step or leap and get himself in worse trouble than he already was.

As he continued he really had to force himself to not let his thoughts drift. Ever since he could remember he had always had the habit to be a little of a dreamer and it most certainly didn't change once the alcohol content in his blood went up. It was part the blame why he could find himself in stupid situations, like the one he had found himself in some good minutes ago. At times it could be so easy to forget the outside world - to some extent - for what your imagination could offer you.

Ah, hell, he needed another break.

There was no such thing as moving effortless when under the influence with a sprained wrist and various other minor, yet bothersome, injuries. It didn't help that the screaming tires of the car echoed in his ears whenever he stood still with his thoughts. He couldn't move any slower, even if it might do him good, without walking the remaining distance home. There were only two blocks to the manhole where he would go down, from that point on he could take it slower being out of sight and all that. It wasn't a random choice, either. A lot of the manholes were not even fit for humans to climb through and even more were unsuited for the turtles with the extra width and immobility of their shells. Michelangelo also had to make sure that the manhole he climbed into would be connected to the same tunnel system as the one their lair was located.

Crouching down by the rise along the edge to allow the shadows of a corner engulf him, allowing himself a breather in the cool summer night. He almost hoped for rain. It washed the dirt away from the streets, made the pipes in the underground tunnels gargle in a soothing rhythm and more importantly it was far better to hide in when you tried to drag your beaten ass home. The thought of the rain pouring down in an uneven patter made him remember a memory of a memory. Well, it was the third green drink - with a hysterical pink umbrella, mind you - that had gotten him rambling on about a preteen incident he hadn't visited in a while. Michelangelo smoothly jogged by the roof's edge towards the fire escape, pausing by the edge to make sure he had a clear shot of getting down without being spotted.

Michelangelo had just swung a foot out to the first step when he heard voices from the end of the street. Not wanting to take any chances he quickly disappeared behind the edge again, peering over to see what was going on. The voices were too muffled for him to make out, but below him two figures quickly made their way up to the same fire escape he planned on climbing down. Fuck, they better not plan on going to the roof. A quick look around told him he'd have other means of escape as well as hiding places, though that also meant some quick acrobatics he was sure his wrist would not approve of.

"Quiet--! Idiot..!"

Perfectly aware it was what killed the cat, Mike curiously peered over the edge of the roof again at the voice. The volume gave him a suspicion that he wasn't the only one outside being not quite sober. A couple of floors below he could barely make out the figures of two men who were in the progress of slowly sliding an apartment window up, neither seeming too steady on their feet. Drunken burglary? Seriously? Isn't this something you see on _America's Dumbest Criminals_..?

"Be quiet... my Dad's gonna kill us if we wake 'im up."

Looks like he's not the only one getting in trouble doing something he shouldn't either!

So, not an inept burglary attempt then. The crack to the last guy's voice was a dead giveaway of their age. It made a smile spread across Mike's face as he saw them struggling with whatever they had used to keep the window from completely closing yet seeming shut. Their voices muffled so he couldn't hear then anymore, though the tone was of frustration until they were finally able to slide the window all the way up to get inside. With the noise they made he was surprised they didn't wake up the whole house, more so as the last one more or less fell into the apartment.

Armatures. Honestly! Sneaking out from home is so much easier when you're a teenage ninja. Michelangelo remember how they used to do the same in their preteens with varied results, but more often than not they were quite successful in getting topside unnoticed. It helped to not all leave at once so the sudden silence wouldn't become so obvious. Their father's scares had been well embedded in them, though. As a result they rarely went on their lonesome in fear of running into trouble without a brother to back them up. The good natured bitching about having a hanger on was part of the deal as none of them ever wanted to admit it was nice to have company.

Mike can't remember who had suggested it or if it even had been suggested. If pressed to come up with a name he'd go with Raphael. With puberty roaring at its worst he used to tag along to a shady theatre on 3rd- and Park Street to get a sneak peak at that night's porn flick. They were daring, no doubt about that, though with the area and the title of the movie it's probably not too strange nobody looked too closely at anybody. He can't remember what kind of porn it was, either, because that wasn't why the memory was worth keeping. It was the afterwards. Mike's fondest memory was how they'd nervously try to time getting out before the movie ended and lights got dimmed up without missing too much of the show. How they'd gather on the rooftop afterwards with a flush to their faces of varied degrees of arousal and shame.

As he deemed the street to be quiet enough Mike made his way down the fire escape, still with that silly smile to his face. He remembered how he had been embarrassed to meet his brothers' eye, unaware Raph or Leo or Donny most likely felt the very same awkwardness. After confirming they had both gotten out in one piece and the night was still quiet, they'd part with a few muffled words of goodbye and take separate routes home. Either to let their budding erections fade in the cool night air or simply take matters into their own hands on the way.

Finally.

Michelangelo quickly checked it surroundings, not only was the manhole his size, but it was also right under a yet another dead street light making it the perfect spot to climb down. Blessed be New York's Department of Transportation for crappy maintenance. Now he'd walk. No matter how eager he was to get a little TLC and a good night's sleep there was no denial in that he felt both dizzy and nauseous. Not a good combination for running around in underground tunnels, even if it wasn't directly the sewer, falling down here could end up nasty depending on what you landed in. It also allowed his thoughts to wander further, which wasn't such a bad thing as he needed something to occupy himself besides a mantra of "I don't _really_ wanna barf".

It had never occurred to him by then, while sneaking into adult movies, of the impossibilities of having a partner or lover. After seeing so many different variations of perfect family bliss he had always assumed that one day that whole stereotypical "Mom, Dad and two-and-a-half child" statistics kind of deal would ring true for him, too. It was the same assurance he remembered having when he was eight and assumed with the same passion that one day he'd wake up with x-ray vision. It wasn't a matter of scrutinising the "how". The fact he was a talking, walking, mutated turtle hadn't really slapped him as an obstacle. It was just going to be like that one day as it was for everybody else. Even with their father's monologues of the surface and how they would never be accepted there, it hadn't properly sunk it. There would always be one girl who would be different than all the others.

A special girl, meant for him, who would be able to see past his appearance to who he was under the shell.

When they finally managed to get internet hooked up in the lair, the theatre lost its lure and eventually so did the porn as a whole. After years of sneaking out, the topside world wasn't so scary anymore and ending up having company became a true nuisance. He didn't mind having Donatello with him or Raphael, but it was always best to be alone without the judgemental eyes of others. Besides, as true then as it was now, they lived so on top of each that it was a rare luxury to be completely alone for a period stretching over 30 minutes. Michelangelo could do whatever he fancied without caring what anyone around him thought of it.

Such as going out to spy on half naked girls. Not something he would say he was proud of, but with the hormones rushing through his sixteen year old body, what else could he do? It's odd to think about, considering it wasn't that many years ago. The internet and its porn movies had been fun at first, though eventually they became unrealistic and impersonal. With cable came more late-night movies and eventually the female body as a whole ended up being strangely uninteresting. Out here that same distant body became more real, of flesh and blood. Not a retouched image of what certain people thought a woman's naked body should look like, but how it actually was in real life. So even if the woman who was standing all across on the other side of the building in her own home had stretch marks, love handles and other blemishes – she was at last a real life person. Her natural flaws made her more beautiful than the so-called perfection he had been exposed to.

In between his curiosity and arousal he had also felt terribly guilty. Here were young women who believed to be in the safety of their own home. A place where nobody would be able to reach out to them, where they could enjoy and relish in their privacy: And there he had been intruding on their space by looking at their bodies.

He really hoped those hormone-driven nights out was one of the things his father didn't know about. Of course Master Splinter could always have just looked the other way when his boys did these rather immoral things. Granting them this little look at something they'd never get in a hope they'd figure it on their own, rather than point out the obvious. Michelangelo would like to think it was the former, because it seemed like one of those lessons Splinter would prefer giving them. Even if some of his sons took the lesson to heart later than others.

Eventually he had made himself a route with buildings where he would be well concealed yet still get a good view through the windows. All while keeping the feeling he was a sick little pervert tucked at the debts of his stomach. It would be almost four years ago when he had seen Her. It was the sight of black hair strands from her messy top gently touching down over her naked chocolate coloured shoulder that caught his attention. No matter how tried he couldn't for the life of him remember her face. Maybe she had a wide mouth with lush lips. Her upper lip bigger than her lower and a broad nose that would fit her face perfectly. Michelangelo didn't have a clue. He did like to think she had been beautiful.

Over the years she just got better looking to his memory.

She had been sitting close to the widow in a rocking chair keeping her attention directed down to the infant she was nursing. Michelangelo had found himself taken by the smoothness of her breast and the sporadic sight of a large, dark red nipple to care for anything else. The only thing on his mind had been "boobs", "she's hot" and an occasional "the kid is blocking the view" until for some reason it finally clicked. That he'd never have that.

That. The kid.

A startled sound of pain escaped him as he snapped out of his thoughts at the very unpleasant sensation of brushing his bruised elbow into a pipe protruding from the wall. Goddamnit! It wasn't enough he had gotten himself ran over; he had to make sure his bruises had bruises, too! As he moved through the tunnels there was only the occasional sound of pebbles being kicked around or a series of splashes when he stepped through puddles. All sounds from above were different when they reached below; muffled, distant and distorted. It was so familiar that it was easy to tune out. With his mind somewhere else it was as if he walked in darkness. Michelangelo's movements and reactions to what he saw were sheer habit.

Just as well considering how horrid he felt at the moment. Though it was nothing to how he had felt back then with Her. April and Casey were the proof that there were people who were willing to overlook their appearance, forget that they were mutated turtles and treat them as they would any other human being. It would be a completely different matter to find somebody who would overlook who they were to the point of a relationship. Not to mention sex. He had been early teens at the time and even if he had started to get that the stereotypical family would be hard to find, he had never taken to heart just how hard.

In another few years Donatello would do his science thing and declare he suspected they were all sterile. At least it seemed to be a fact "they" didn't have very good swimmers. Even if they did have excellent sperm counts, as Donny had really put it, who knows if they were able to make a human pregnant? Who knew what it would do to the woman who had to carry the child? Thoughts similar to those had startled him then and there, enough to abruptly leave Her and storm home with such a rage his brothers had settled with throwing him concerned looks and leaving him well alone. Michelangelo hadn't felt angry at the world for robbing him of a child he'd never have or even for forcing him to live down in the sewers. Those were things he could forgive. What made him so overwhelmingly mad was the fact he hadn't picked up on it until that point.

Donatello had later tried to make him open up and talk about what had happened, but Mike had changed the subject whenever it came up and eventually it had been left at that. They stopped prying because over the passing days Michelangelo did let it go. Being bitter and angry over something he couldn't change wasn't in his nature. Out of all of them, Mike knew he was the one who had the easiest to forgive - if not always forget. As he saw it the "destructive rage" part was well handled by Raphael anyways without needing competition.

Shaking off the memories he found the entrance to the lair. Besides a slight indent of the part which was the door it was as lichen grown, worn and crumbled as the rest of the tunnel. A trained eye would be required to notice the difference and then to know what that difference meant. When he was finally home, hidden underground from the topside and away from the tunnels, he could finally completely relax. A hard push to one of the bricks above his head gave that familiar snapping of locks which made him able to push the door in, quickly step inside and close it behind him.

Before Leonardo was sent off on his year of self discovery to become a better leader it would be impossible to get in at this hour. Mike didn't bother to check his watch, but was certain it had to be closer to six by now. A year ago that meant Leo would already be up to prepare for that morning's training. Nothing happened by then without him knowing or having some overview of his brother's whereabouts. It was annoying as hell to get questioned why he was up early when he had been out all night, to be busted under Leonardo's judgemental, yet worried, stare. Now he wouldn't care about the lecture, he'd rather get caught like that again if it meant Leo would be around.

There was a buzz from the corner were Donatello had set up some computers, though he knew the majority of it was inside the lab to avoid having that noise bother the rest. As he had been told over and over again the tech company Don worked for had a non-tolerance to background noise, so even a normal tone voice would be enough to get him canned. Considering the geek was the only one who offered their little household a steady income it was best to give him that silence.

Currently, though, he would need to wake somebody up to get some help. Moving to the staircase to head up to the bathroom he knew what steps that creaked and stepped over them on his way up. The alcohol still gave him a buzz, but it had also started to make him nauseous, tired and dizzy. Opening the bathroom door created a lot more noise than he had intended, too. A moment he froze in place shushing himself with a finger in front of his lips before stumbling inside to cling to the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl as he retched. As the content of the night's evening floating in the water he couldn't shake off the feeling the noise had woken the entire lair. Everyone was a light sleeper in this home.

"Mike..?"

Turning his head to the bathroom door he couldn't help but think how odd it was to see Donatello, who normally could be found passed out over his keyboard, up at this hour. Don had recently tried to pick up some of Leo's habits, maybe as a way to cope. Or perhaps he was trying to figure out if any of Leonardo's rituals would rub off some much needed leadership skills on him. Either way Don stood by the doorway with a sandwich in one hand, a rolled up magazine in the other and a puzzled look on his face that quickly changed into concern at the sight before him.

Mike wondered a brief moment, with the reading material and all, if Donny was taking his food "to go". At suddenly catching his own horrible pun he couldn't help greeting his brother with a sudden amused chuckle: "Heheh... mornin'?"

Out of all his brothers it was Donatello Mike considered to be his best friend. He remembered how they used to sneak into each other's beds at night when really rainy days caused all the pipes down in the sewers to make sickening, gargled noises. It used to terrify him as a kid, when his over-imaginative brain would con the strangest of explanations to what he heard. Everything from pizza meatball monsters to killer rabbits where stalking the sewers at heavy rain. Even Donatello, with his scientific and thus heavily logical mindset, couldn't get Mike to swallow the rational explanation to the odd noises at night or to the shadows under his bed.

When Michelangelo got old enough to set a line between reality and fiction, he would still sometimes sneak over to Donatello's bed all the way up to their early teens. If for nothing more than to talk about whatever had happened during the day, hidden under the blanket with their faces inches apart so they could make fun of each other's breaths. They could continue chatting about anything until they finally drifted off to sleep. As always, Don would have the alarm set at an early hour so Mike could slip back into his own bed before the rest of the household rose. Over the breakfast table a few hours later the two would share secretive glances, feeling smug over having a secret together - no matter how small or insignificant.

After Leonardo left for his "training pilgrimage", whatever that meant, Mikey's friendship with Donatello hadn't been quite the same.

Once the threat of the Foot had been eliminated for the second time, things had gone back to a strange level of normality which you simply couldn't compare to the life they had previously. Everything had gone back to how it had been before, only now their lives lacked its overhanging purpose. They still woke up at the crack of dawn for training, their continued to practice invisibility by going topside on runs and daily life with its highlights and squabbles carried on. It didn't show right away, but gradually it was obvious that the frustration of living in hiding and on top of each other started to surface in different ways.

The most obvious indication was how the tension that had been Raphael and Leonardo in their early teens built back up. All the pieces they'd put together over the years to keep a good relationship as both brothers and team members slowly scrambled apart. Raph rebelled when there was no reason to rebel just to show his overall displeasure with everything. Leonardo's orders were so specific that it just screamed how he considered Raphael was inept at getting it right unless it was fed to him with a tablespoon. Michelangelo remembered how Master Splinter seemingly grew decades older each time his brothers were at each other's throats and each fight grew more heated than the previous.

It wasn't that they hated each other, Mike knew that. Though living underground without seemingly any purpose and not being able to find something to occupy themselves with - it's no wonder how they started to fall apart. So in a similar fashion to how he'd seek out Don as a kid to remind himself the nightmares weren't real - he started to do the same thing to distract himself from Leo and Raph's fighting. Not even Donatello was untouched and handled it by drowning himself with work wherever he could find it. Electronic-wise the lair had never been better. Don found projects that seemed impossible to solve and gave smaller projects way more attention than they deserved to occupy his mind and hands.

It had been really great.

Michelangelo could sit with Don for hours, watch him tinker, asking dumb questions, ruining things and better yet – get away with it all by soothing his brother's sudden temper. Whenever they were both tired of whatever it was Don was trying to fix or improve, they'd play a videogame, read comics even exercise or do something else all together. It was one of those few highlights he had from when the fighting was at its worse, before Leonardo agreed to be sent away for a training period to learn... something. It was so responsible of him. So typical Leonardo.

"What on earth happened to you?"

Ever since Donatello was supposed to continue the "leader stick" Michelangelo felt he had lost his best friend.

"'s really nothin'," Mike slurred as he hugged the porcelain and hoped his stomach would remain calm. Catching a glimpse of the bowl's content and... even in return it was blue. Yuck, now that couldn't be healthy?

"Nothing..?" Don stepped into the room and crouched down by his brother, resting a hand on his shoulder to look at him closer. "You look like utter hell, Mike. Did you run into trouble..?"

To think he was just to go into a mental rant over how Donatello would set off into "leader mode" and proceed with giving him the lecture of his life. That's the most noticeable change after Leonardo was gone, now Don was desperately clinging to the idea of gaining the same authority Leo had without being able to master it. Any direct order out over Don's mouth ended up sounding horribly misplaced. The serene, yet demanding authority that was found so natural in Leo was lacking. Resulting in that, more often than don, Donatello ended up sounding like a complete nag and was promptly ignored. Not only had they completely stopped doing training together, they didn't even do topside runs and that was definitely some of the most fun they did as a group. Actually, they'd grown so far apart that Mike couldn't remember when they last had one together.

"I might've gotten... hit by a car..."

"...you what?"

Raphael vented out his anger on Don where he had previously taken it out on Leonardo.

So as time passed Donatello got in a circle where he'd attempt to lead followed by days where he would seemingly not give a flying fuck. Mostly he lectured, which was possibly Don's way of getting out his frustration and anger. At first even Raphael had humoured Don by glowering through the advice and corrections until he was fed up with even that and simply resolved to flipping Don off. Raphael was too mad to take any orders, Mike guessed. These days he seemed far too happy with being able to do his own thing to allow anyone, especially Don, to lead him.

As it were now, Raphael and Donatello clashed together almost as often as Raphael had once clashed with Leonardo. The difference was that their fights didn't seem that intense or heated due to the fact Don always allowed Raph to run him over before it ever got ugly. The fights were therefore very short lived. Raphael easily managed to put his "leader" in place, being far more aggressive than Donatello. It was downright painful to watch Don cling to his morals and lessons to abandon them when facing Raph's anger.

Michelangelo had to admit that as of late he didn't really listen to Don's lectures either. He simply tuned his brother out into the background noise along with the gargling pipes and hum of the subway. Resorting to nodding at what he thought were right places, until Donny considered himself done. Hopefully he'd not get that right now, though he was certain that once Don's worry had passed he'd likely be told what a complete moron he had been.

"I got hit by a car."

"You said that already."

"Uhu... I think I sprained my wrist. Ain't all that bad, though."

Donatello merely nodded and turned around to leave his magazine and sandwich on a bathroom shelf before getting the first aid box off the one above his disregarded meal. Mike wondered if it really was breakfast or a very late night snack as Don again sat down next to him with that same closed expression to inspect his wounds.

"You just threw up. Did you knock your head or is it due to the alcohol?" Don enquired as he scooted closer to give his brother's injuries a closer look to judge how to best mend them. Likely coming to the same conclusion Mike had earlier that it wasn't too bad, because even if the frown was still there he didn't seem overly alarmed.

"Could be both, been feelin' a little nauseous... an' I got a little headache. I don't remember hittin' my head, but that don't mean I didn' so... I donno..."

Mike knew he slurred his speech, but it sounded more like drunken slur to him to be honest. They were fairly used to assessing their injuries as well as mending them, all to get a grasp of how far they could push themselves in combat before reaching their limits. He knew he was as a good as medic as Donatello was and he was fairly sure to what his own expertise told him; that tomorrow would bring a horrible morning after and a sore body, but he'd be fine given rest.

"I'll get an icepack to put on your wrist. Keep your hand high meanwhile."

With that Don got up almost as quickly as he'd sat down and quietly retreated out the bathroom door. Michelangelo could only nod after the shell in a reply, still a little baffled by the lack of any exasperated hysterics if not over his injuries than over the manner which he had acquired them. Bathed in the sharp light of the bathroom he noticed how he did indeed look like all hell with dried blood to his knuckles and knees with bits of gravel to the flesh. The bruise to his side had blossomed, as had one to his thigh which he hadn't quite noticed until now. If he dared to get up he'd given his shell a look in the mirror, but the fear of throwing up again made him settle with resting the sprained wrist against the back of the toilet.

However he felt a little better now with his stomach content in the bowl, so he guessed that had to be something. Mike was too focused on the pounding from his head to notice the time, and soon enough Donatello returned with a bag of peas in one hand. Somebody must've taken the actual icepack, Mike mused, but held his tongue as it seemed cooperating might spare him a frustration caused scolding over the subject.

He really should pay back Betty for those drinks she'd made him. On the other hand Mike was quite sure he deserved them considering she robbed him of all his money in the game of poker she had suggested. Maybe there was worth while checking the great interwebs for some tips or even a "poker for dummies" guide. Other than losing all his cash, about 20 bucks he figured, it had been really fun. Winning would probably be even more fun.

"So... what really happened, Mikey?" Don asked in a mellow tone, causing Mike to lose his train of thought.

"I was stupid," he quickly admitted while remaining put for Don to carefully place the bag of peas on his wrist. The cold felt biting to his skin and even though he knows he shouldn't complain it couldn't prevent the expression of self-pity to his face.

"I--I ran across the road an' got hit by a car, like I told you... t'was really stupid, I know..! It just came out o' nowhere," here Mike demonstrated with a swift "c"-movement of his non-sprained wrist, "and 'm sure it would've flattened me if I hadn't managed to jump on the hood an' roll off. I donno, it kinda happened really fast... an'... 'm not exactly sober."

Oh, Mike could tell that story didn't impress his brother the least by the way Don's muscles tensed along his jaw. It suddenly made him feel even worse; aware that like Leonardo Don took all these negative incidents on his own shoulders. Here he was, getting ice for his wrist and filling a bowl with water from the faucet and antiseptic from the first aid kid to clean out the gravel from his skin with tweezers and an impressive amount of patience. Maybe it was that thought which gave Don that exasperated expression Mike had been waiting for, but also a worry that manifested itself as a slight frown limited to the edges of Don's brow.

"They-- they were stupid drunks... I mean that had to be by the drivin'... I don' think they saw m--"

"You don't think--?" Donatello interrupted, his sharp tone transformed into a sigh and a disbelievingly shook to his head.

"Ouch! Careful, that hurts..!"

Oh, the irony that the alcohol that got him into this trouble was now aiding in sterilising his wounds. Having never been a fan of irony, Mike was unable to appreciate the scene and settled with a drunken pout. Like always when under the influence he felt the urge to ramble about nothing at all, though forced himself to remain quiet as he watched Don carefully tend to his beaten skin. Out of all his siblings, it was Don who had the most patience to his whining and pouting. It probably came from the fact they were best buds at one time; they accepted each other's little oddities, no matter how exasperating.

"Come one, Mike, it's not that bad."

"Yes, it is..! Did you get the most stinging stuff you had just to torment me?" Mike questioned with that same pouty expression, making him look a little droopy with the drunken glaze to his eyes. Another "ouch" was produced to underline his pain. Forgotten was the fact that not even an hour ago had reprimanded himself for being such a baby about the rather minor pain and discomfort. It was always easier to be tough when he was on his own, when around family it was so much easier to give in and drown in their care.

A part of Mike felt like being chatty; talk about everything and nothing at all. Get Don to follow him to bed like when they were kids so they could stare at the ceiling and talk about whatever scientific topic was on the purple wearing turtle's mind. Then Mike would switch subject just moments before it made him fall asleep, steering it off to how he now totally kicked ass on Donatello's skateboard. That'd lead to a friendly argue until they'd roughhouse over it and finally agree on a race first thing tomorrow to settle the dispute. It would be so awesome, exactly like before Don was expected to fill a role he wasn't fit for no matter how he tried to shape himself.

The only thing that stopped him was the fact Don had a drawn, closed expression as Don padded Mike's thigh with the antiseptic and looking for gravel which only the tweezers could get out.

"I don't think this is worse than when you actually got hit by that car..." Don's tone was calm, if somewhat condescending, though he managed to offer a tired smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes to look sincere.

Michelangelo had to agree and wisely kept his mouth shut for the moment. He was so nauseous that he gave up on the whole conversation and allowed his brother to care for him. Donnie was good at that, always was.

* * *

"You do know that I love you, right Donnie?"

Donatello didn't react at first at the voice that broke the sudden silence of Mike's bedroom. Too focused on making sure Mike was in a comfortable sleeping position in the mess which was his bed. That his dressings were neat and wouldn't unfold during the night; that he could lie in a position where his sprained wrist could continue to rest a little higher than the rest of him... Don could only blink a little confused as the sentence sunk in.

"I had always pictured you as a loving drunk, Mikey," Don said as his face slowly offered a gentle smile, one which actually reached his tired eyes. "You're not as talkative as I imagined you to be. Probably just as well, really."

"Dude, are you tryin' to hurt my feelin's? Even if I'm not all that sober, I'm bein' serious over here... It's one of those..." at this point he scratched the bandaged knee through the blanket before catching himself with a sheepish grin, "heart-to-heart moments."

"It's way too late-- or too early actually, for one of those talks, Mikey," Don's smile faded as he rose from where he had sat on the edge of the bed and begun tidying a little up. He was strangely thankful for the dim light of the lava lamp on the desk which kept most of the gross which was his brother's room out of view. In all honesty, Don wouldn't mind a heart-to-heart moment, but he feared what he'd be told. It didn't help that Mike was without doubt in a very sappy mood and he didn't really want the conversation spoiled with lowered inhibitions and plain common sense removed credited to the alcohol. Don's expression fell into a frown again as he watched the green wax-mix inside the lava lamp heat into a liquid and rise, then slowly cool and fall back down again only to be repeat the process.

There was one thing he couldn't deny, though.

"I love you, too. Even if you're an emotional, drunken mess."

Donatello shifted his attention to his brother with a slightly uncomfortable smile over the sudden open affection between them. The smile got more sincere when he noticed Mike was asleep, if restlessly so, his head tilted a little towards his raised arm and an uncomfortable frown covered his face. Don could only hope the Paracetamol would kick in after a bit and give his brother a more calming sleep once he found relief from the pain. There were more painkillers on the nightstand along with a bottle of water, so Mike had something to nurse his oncoming hangover with in the morning.

As Don picked up some of the items he'd brought up, such as the compress for Mike's wrist, he considered how truly lucky his brother had been with that encounter with the car. It wasn't just the fear of knowing he could've been seriously hurt, it was that fear which had haunted their entire life: That humans would see them, take them away and then the rest of the family would be clueless to what had happened. Donatello had often pondered as a teen what would happen to them if captured as their father constantly scared them with to keep them from going topside. What the humans would do if they got discovered a gigantic, walking, talking turtle was only good guesswork. However, imagining the word "laboratory" to be a word in the answers couldn't be too far off.

The shock of seeing Mike cling to the toilet leaving bloody fingerprints on the porcelain was slowly wearing off now when he knew Michelangelo was safe. With that in mind, Donatello stopped by the bathroom to shallowly clean up the worst evidence before taking the first aid kit with him to the kitchen so he could sort out the content. That the cold press was missing from the freezer irritated him, and it gave him a feeling more would be missing from the content of the case. While he was up, he might as well skim over it before work. His food was long gone dry where he had absently left it in the bathroom and with it so had his appetite.

After placing the first aid kit gently on the kitchen table Don rubbed his eyes tiredly before setting out on his task. He hadn't gotten much sleep tonight, which was the only reason he had gotten up so early. Lucky he did, in case the doofus had been seriously hurt, or simply decided to crash in his bed without cleaning himself up. Donatello knew that he had to have a more serious talk with his brother once Mike had gone through the worst of the hangover. It was something he didn't look forward to one bit. It there was something he'd grown to hate it was that dreamy expression in Michelangelo's eyes whenever Donatello tried to talk to him about something serious when Mike didn't feel like contributing to the conversation.

If he had thought of it then, he'd have brought it up before Mike went asleep, but that felt cowardly. Not so much because he would be taking advantage of Mike's state of mind, but more so the fact he had wanted a "heart-to-heart" and not a third degree to what had really happened tonight. Michelangelo was alright, that was really all that mattered and his tired mind couldn't be bothered with the details at the moment.

Closing the lid on the first aid kit Don moved over to the kitchen garbage bin to get rid of various items out of date. The content of the box wasn't too bad, though it had obviously been in use every now and again. It was something Don could attack later when he had time. It was closing in on being seven in the morning and Donatello already felt bone tired. There would be many more hours with clueless customers on the tech support line before he could take a break and the only reason he was up so early was because he had been unable to sleep in the first place.

Even now Don had doubts about being able to sleep and even as his thoughts raced he grabbed a dish by the sink, carefully turned the faucet on with luke-warm water and began cleaning off the counter. Why did he always need to occupy himself? Why couldn't things be fixed as easily or methodically as every other item that got broken in this household? Having seen Raphael's bed abandoned for yet another night, not knowing where its occupant had headed off to, Don had loathed himself for knowing he'd not question Raph's whereabouts. Hell, he knew he'd not even voice his suspicious when he next time saw his brother. At least Mike had the decency to at least say where he was, if not always how long he'd be out.

"I see that the Clueless Leader is doing what he does best again?"

It was all it took for Donatello to cringe and his shoulders to sink ever so slightly towards the counter. There was no mistaking Raphael's mocking tone in the nickname he'd given his purple wearing brother shortly after Leonardo left. And the more Don heard it the more he hated it for all the truth that it held. For some reason it was only fitting that this morning would go from bad to worse, Don mused. Like the day itself had decided to punish him for his lack of ability to keep the family together.

"At least it's more than someone else around here does," was the only reply he had. Donatello turned around and leaned his shell to the edge of the counter, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive manner even if he knew it would only amuse Raphael. It was unavoidable that whenever Raph was in the same room his shield went skywards rather quickly to prepare himself from any attack.

So far Raphael settled with a soft chuckle as he walked into the kitchen, not even giving the first aid kit a second glance. Donatello wondered how long he'd been watching, if he knew Mike had been in an accident or if he simply didn't care that anyone got hurt. With spite Don would like to think it was the latter. He wanted Raphael to just keep being a complete ass so he could have all the more reasons to hate his guts.

It took just as much effort to get into a fight with Raph as it did trying to ignore him; both ways drained Don of strength.

Raphael didn't even bother giving his new leader a second glance as he made his way over to the fridge and took out a Coke. Opening it with a hiss, Raphael emptied it quickly in several large gulps before crunching it effortless in one hand. The two brothers locked eyes for a moment, Don's dark stare meeting a bemused one from Raphael. And just as Donatello was to voice his displeasure with Raph being gone all night the can got tossed over the space that separated them. Not being prepared for the throw Don clumsily grabbed after the can before finally catching it, feeling slightly triumphant until he saw that look on Raphael's face.

"Don't quit your day job, Donnie," was all Raph said, the smirk on his face shining through with a smug tone to his voice.

"I--I really suck, don't I?" The voice was a mere whisper, but loud enough to be heard as Don glanced down to the mauled aluminium in his hands.

When he looked up, Raphael was again there to meet his eyes with a dry smile before simply turning on his heels and silently retreating up the stairs to his own room.

Don stood alone in the kitchen for a long couple of minutes with the crushed can in his hands feeling miserable. Then the sudden slamming of a door and the unmistakable, yet somewhat muffled, sound of someone throwing up made it the perfect start of a new day. Just like so many other days prior to this one.


End file.
